


Distraction

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since John had planted that <i>infernal</i> idea in his head all those months ago, Lestrade hadn’t been able to shake it. This was ridiculous. He was <i>not</i> in love with Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fic I wrote in response to a _Sherlock_ S3 clip being released sometime last year at a Con that showed Sherlock (once again) forgetting Lestrade’s first name. (Now that I have seen S3, I think it might have been the scene where John was asking Sherlock to be his best man and Sherlock responded with telling him to ask “Gavin” Lestrade, but I’m not entirely certain). Anyway, the whole I-can’t-remember-Greg’s-first-name thing got old after HOUN, so this happened. It only ever was posted to Tumblr, so I’m just moving it to LJ and AO3 to keep all my fics together.
> 
> Needless to say, this is not S3 compliant.
> 
> * * *

John had to repeat the question. Twice.   
  
Even then, Lestrade wasn’t sure he’d heard properly.   
  
“Oh, for God’s sake,” John said finally, popping the top off of a beer and shoving it into Lestrade’s hands. “You heard me just fine. Now say yes, damn it, or I’m going to have to ask Sherlock.”   
  
“Er,” was all Lestrade could manage for a minute, and then finally, “Um. Why _aren’t_ you asking Sherlock?”   
  
John rolled his eyes.  “As if he’d want something like this.”   
  
“He might.”   
  
“I don’t!” came a voice from down the hallway, and John sighed. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best of ideas to have this conversation in the kitchen, Lestrade slowly realised, but even though his own stupefaction he could tell that John was nervous. The question had just sort of come out unexpectedly, apparently even taking John by surprise, but he soldiered on anyway.   
  
“Be my best man,” John repeated. “Come on, mate. It’d mean a lot. I - look, Sherlock was there when I needed him right after I was invalided home. I don’t know where I’d be right now if I hadn’t taken this flatshare. Probably dead, I won’t lie. But then he left, and you - look, you’re probably my closest friend. I’ve known you longer than him, given all that time he was away. Please.”   
  
“Yeah, all right, then,” Lestrade said gruffly. He cleared his throat. “I’d - yeah, I’d love to, John.”   
  
He managed a hesitant smile, and John practically beamed.   
  
“Cheers,” he said, holding up his own beer, and they drank. “I owe you one, mate. And I’ll be happy to return the favour once you find one of your own to settle down with.”   
  
Lestrade gave a sharp bark of laughter.   
  
“Oh, no, no, I’m not getting married again. No, thanks. Once is enough for me.”   
  
John lifted an eyebrow at him.   
  
“I always get nervous when you say _no_ three times in a row. Did you even take a breath through all that?”   
  
Lestrade felt his neck colour and took a long swallow of beer. He was trying to think of a proper response that would make John laugh and drop the subject when the door at the end of the hallway opened and Sherlock stalked into the kitchen.   
  
It was still strange, even six months later, seeing Sherlock around the flat. He’d come back from the dead with a handful of grey hairs and a jagged scar down the side of his neck, but other than that his appearance had hardly changed. He was more abrasive, his personality more acerbic, and he had a tendency to have entire one-sided conversations out loud. Living on his own for three years had instilled in him some strange habits, and having no one to talk to during that time meant that he could only rely on thin air for an opinion.   
  
But he was still Sherlock, and he was still _alive_.   
  
“Are you sure that beer is a good idea?” he said waspishly to Lestrade. He began rooting through the papers on his work table, obviously looking for something. Three years ago, Lestrade might have given him a caustic reply. Now, however, he spent most of his time around Sherlock simply being amazed that the man was still alive. It was astounding, and more than he ever could have hoped for. Never before had one Lestrade’s most desperate wishes come true, and he didn’t know what to make of it.   
  
“Greg’s just agreed to be my best man,” John said, ignoring Sherlock’s remark.   
  
“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock asked absently.   
  
_ “Sherlock.” _  
  
He looked up, and his eyes flicked from John to Lestrade.   
  
“Oh,” he said. He went back to his search. “Lestrade. Right. I see.”   
  
“You know, it’d be nice if you didn’t pretend to forget my damn name every time,” Lestrade said in exasperation.   
  
“Who says I’m pretending?”   
  
The words felt like a slap, and Lestrade hid his probably-transparent expression behind another swallow of beer.   
  
“Damn it, Sherlock!” John burst out. “You know, the _least_ you could do -”   
  
He stopped abruptly, and when Lestrade turned to look at him he found that John was staring at him stupidly. Sherlock huffed and stomped off, and they were left alone in the kitchen again.   
  
“Oh,” John breathed just as Lestrade opened his mouth to ask just what the _hell_ was going on. “Oh, mate, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?”   
  
“What are you talking about?” Lestrade growled.   
  
“That look on your face. You’re bloody in love with him,” John said in a low, astounded voice. “You’re in love with _Sherlock_.”   
  
—————-   
  
Sherlock was drunk.   
  
Lestrade wasn’t sure how he’d managed it, because the wedding reception was small and he’d only seen Sherlock with—seemingly—the same glass in his hand all night. Not that Lestrade had been looking at Sherlock, of course. At least, not more than usual.   
  
Well, no, that was a lie.   
  
Ever since John had planted that _infernal_ idea in his head all those months ago, Lestrade hadn’t been able to shake it. This was ridiculous. He was _not_ in love with Sherlock. He was absolutely, completely not in love. Sherlock was the most infuriating man he knew. He couldn’t even stand to be in the same _room_ with him for more than a few minutes at a time. How could he possibly be in love with Sherlock?   
  
But ever since the day John had asked him to be his best man, Lestrade found himself studying Sherlock more than was normal. Or maybe it only felt like more than normal, because he was now noticing it. Sherlock had worked two cases for him during the intervening months, and each time they were in a room together Lestrade noticed that own his gaze kept straying to—and lingering on—Sherlock. He’d tried to make it look like he was very interested in the detective’s analysis, and he truly was. But that didn’t exactly excuse his eyes wandering over Sherlock’s taut shoulders and firm backside, and the fact that he took note of how nicely Sherlock’s suits clung to his form.   
  
That didn’t mean anything. Sherlock was attractive, in an odd way. He was in peak physical shape, at least, and his features were unforgettable, if nothing else. He wasn’t exactly gorgeous, but his appearance grew on a person. Lestrade had known Sherlock eight years now, and he could say that his face was actually pleasing. Especially now that there were permanent crow’s feet stamped at the corner of his eyes, and a few wisps of grey in his hair. It was all very appealing, really.   
  
But that did _not_ mean he was in love. Sherlock couldn’t even be bothered to commit his first name to memory.   
  
“He’s brooding.”   
  
Lestrade started and looked around.   
  
“What?” he asked stupidly. John nodded at one of the tables in the far corner of the room, where Sherlock was sitting. He had a drink at his elbow and his phone in hand, and he was apparently trying very hard to ignore the party around him.   
  
“He’s brooding, and he’s drunk,” John said. “So go distract him.”   
  
“Why me?” Lestrade asked, almost too quickly. John leveled a look at him that said, _Besides the obvious?_   
  
“Because, like it or not, mate, you’re the only other person here who he mostly tolerates. Molly and Mrs Hudson have already left, and I’ve got, you know.” He waved a hand, indicating Mary and the flurry of guests that they had yet to greet. “So go _distract_ him, because I will not have Sherlock bloody Holmes burn down this reception hall because he’s _drunk_ and _brooding_. Got it?”   
  
“Got it,” Lestrade muttered as John walked away. He sighed, grabbed a fresh drink, and made his way over to Sherlock’s table.   
  
“Go away,” Sherlock growled when Lestrade dropped into the seat next to him. Lestrade took a long swallow of his drink before daring to answer.   
  
“No,” he said simply. “I see you lost your dance partners.”   
  
Sherlock leaned back in his seat, crossing his ankle over his knee, and downed half of his beer in one go. He had, in truth, surprised Lestrade in a number of ways today. And considering the fact that he had come back from the dead, Lestrade didn’t think he could ever be surprised by Sherlock again. But Sherlock had been appropriately reverent at the wedding itself; he’d even shared a fond look with John from his seat in the moments before Mary entered and came down the aisle. And up until now, he had been surprisingly sociable at the reception. In fact, he’d spent more time on the dance floor than off it in the first few hours of the evening, trading dances with Molly and Mrs Hudson and even a couple of the tiny bridesmaids (Mary’s young nieces).   
  
But now, it seemed, the full weight of the day and all the changes it heralded had taken a toll on Sherlock, and he had reverted back to his usual irritable self.   
  
“They went home,” Sherlock said shortly.   
  
“You could have left, too,” Lestrade pointed out quietly. Sherlock shot him a guarded look.   
  
“I’m drunk,” he muttered. “And I didn’t want to leave.”   
  
“Seems like you do.”   
  
Sherlock’s face darkened, and Lestrade regretted his harsh words. This was going to be a difficult transition for Sherlock, who had only just been getting used to living with John again and having that steady companionship.   
  
“Sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean that. I know you’re going to miss him.”   
  
Sherlock blinked at him.   
  
“John?” He waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be absurd. It’s hardly as though I’ll never see him again.”   
  
“Still,” Lestrade said, “it’s going to be different.”   
  
“I lived three years without him,” Sherlock said. He dropped his gaze to his glass. He added, quietly, “Without you. This is the kind of change I can handle.”   
  
Something caught in Lestrade’s chest at the mention of Sherlock living without him, and he wondered if the weight attached to the words had just been imagined. Probably, he reasoned as he took another sip of his drink. He had been living with John’s words for too long, turning them over and over in his mind. He was now imagining Sherlock’s words holding more meaning than they did, which was absurd.   
  
“I know your name.”   
  
“Hm?” Lestrade dragged his eyes from the dance floor back to Sherlock’s face. “What was that?”   
  
Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was fixed firmly on the couples out on the dance floor.   
  
“I know your name,” he repeated, a bit softer this time.   
  
“Er… okay -”   
  
“It’s Greg.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him, and then back to the dance floor. “Of course I know your name. It’s right there on your warrant card. It’s the first thing I ever knew about you. Greg. Nice name. Dull, ordinary, but nice.”   
  
Lestrade blinked at him.   
  
“Um. Right, cheers,” he said, utterly confused. “Doesn’t explain why you always forget it, though.”   
  
“I _don’t_ forget it,” Sherlock said, nearly snarling. “I pretend to. It helps me - dissociate.”   
  
“Dissociate,” Lestrade repeated blankly. Sherlock nodded.   
  
“Sometimes, I need to distance myself from a situation,” he said in a low voice. And then, pointedly not looking at Lestrade, he added quietly, “Or from someone.”   
  
Lestrade, not knowing what to say to that, instead picked up his drink and took a long swallow. Sherlock drained the rest of his beer and made a face.   
  
“I jumped off that building for you,” he said abruptly. “You were the third target.”   
  
Lestrade stared at him. He’d always known that there were three targets, and that John and Martha Hudson had been two of them. He’d never bothered to ask about the third, having assumed immediately—if Mycroft was in on Sherlock’s death, which he was—that it would be Dr Hooper.   
  
“I thought - Molly -”   
  
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, his expression dark.   
  
“Don’t be a fool. John was obvious an obvious choice, and so was Mrs Hudson. I thought I had been careful beyond that - but no. You… Oh, I was all too transparent about you. Moriarty caught on. Knew what you meant…”   
  
Sherlock trailed off.   
  
“You’re drunk,” Lestrade said quietly, gently. “Come on, let’s get you a cab -”   
  
“No,” Sherlock said sharply, looking at Lestrade. His grey eyes were fierce, and Lestrade held up a hand.   
  
“Fine, all right,” he said placatingly. “Look, lemme just - I need another drink.”   
  
But Sherlock’s hand shot out and wrap around his wrist, hard enough to bruise. He held Lestrade in place.   
  
“ _No,_ ” he repeated in a low voice. “No. You aren’t allowed to leave.”   
  
The intensity of his words sent a jolt down Lestrade’s spine, and he swallowed hard. Carefully, he extracted himself from Sherlock’s grip. After some resistance, Sherlock let him go.   
  
“I’m allowed to do as I bloody well please, lad,” Lestrade said quietly. “But all right. I’m not going anywhere. You wanna explain why you threw yourself off a building for me, then? I don’t think I gave you permission to do that.”   
  
Sherlock’s gaze drifted back to the dance floor, and he began tapping a finger on the arm of his chair in agitation.   
  
Or was it nerves?   
  
“But you did,” he said. “Every time you took me home to crash on your sofa, and every time you gave me a puzzle, and every time you lied to Mycroft so he couldn’t find me… you were giving me permission. You saved my life, you see. And then I got to save yours.”   
  
Lestrade’s throat was suddenly too dry.   
  
“What do you mean,” he croaked, “you were ‘too transparent’?”   
  
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, one so long that Lestrade began to fear that he had made a grave error in asking the question. It was the kind of look that Sherlock usually gave him before turning and stalking away wordlessly, as though he couldn’t even be bothered to verbally rebuke Lestrade for his stupidity.   
  
But Sherlock didn’t walk away, and he also didn’t give a response. Instead, he leaned over and kissed Lestrade.   
  
It was a soft brush of lips, light and dry—not at all what Lestrade expected kissing Sherlock Holmes would be like. He didn’t know what he expected, actually, not really, but he imagined Sherlock would have treated this the way he treated other aspects of life—briskly, efficiently, and with astounding vigor.   
  
This kiss was none of those, however. It was quiet and gentle, and just on the verge of hesitant. But when Lestrade didn’t pull back, Sherlock rested a hand on his knee, leaning closer. The warmth of his fingers bled through Lestrade’s trousers, and he shivered. He rested his hand along the curve of Sherlock’s jaw and deepened the kiss, brushing a thumb across Sherlock’s cheek as Sherlock parted his lips under the press of Lestrade’s tongue. The hour must have grown quite late, Lestrade realised dimly. Stubble on Sherlock’s face rasped under his thumb and scratched his upper lip as he changed the angle of the kiss.   
  
But then Sherlock’s hand flew to his chest, and Lestrade broke the kiss abruptly at the unspoken request. He tried to pull away, lean back, but Sherlock’s hand then fisted into the front of his shirt, holding him in place. Sherlock’s breathing was ragged—he was almost panting—and Lestrade could feel tremors rippling through his hand.   
  
“What’s wrong?” he whispered. Sherlock shook his head.   
  
“Nothing,” he breathed. “Nothing. It’s just - too much. Oh, don’t be an idiot.”   
  
Lestrade had tried to detach himself from Sherlock’s grip, but he held on fast.   
  
“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock said quietly. His breathing was slowly starting to come back under control. “It’s just that - well, any more, and this would have been over in seconds.”   
  
It took Lestrade a moment to process that. Once he did, he felt a deep flush creep up his neck and colour his cheeks. Thank God the room was dark save for the fanciful lights around the dance floor. No one had probably even noticed them over here in the corner.   
  
“Been a while?” he asked lightly, aiming for nonchalant even though his own breathing was still uneven and his heart hadn’t even begun to slow down. He could feel it hammering wildly against the inside of his ribcage. Sherlock finally released his shirt, but didn’t pull away. They were centimeters from one another and breathing the same air. It was electrifying.   
  
“For you as well,” Sherlock murmured, and _Christ_ , wasn’t that the truth.   
  
“Yeah,” Lestrade admitted with a quiet huff. “Listen -”   
  
“John and Mary have a room here; they’re staying. I’m driving back to London tonight,” Sherlock said, before Lestrade could even figure out what he wanted to ask, let alone how to phrase it. He pressed a kiss to the curve of Lestrade’s jaw, and Lestrade shuddered. “Come with me.”   
  
“On one condition,” Lestrade said finally, relieved that he could keep the slight tremor from his voice. He felt weak and lightheaded with it all. “I’m driving.”   
  
Sherlock pulled back and fixed him with a scowl. Lestrade arched an eyebrow at him.   
  
“I’ve been in a car with you driving before,” he said. “It’s not a pleasant experience. Also, you’re drunk, remember?”   
  
Sherlock sighed, but conceded his point.   
  
  
They were on the M40 an hour later. Traffic was light at this indecent hour, and Lestrade was making good time. The radio was on, but low, as Sherlock was asleep beside him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his head resting against the window.   
  
Lestrade’s pocket buzzed, and he fished out his phone. He shouldn’t have checked the message, really he shouldn’t have, because if their positions were reversed Lestrade would have given Sherlock hell for doing the same. He checked it anyway, and promptly woke Sherlock with his laughter.   
  
_ To: Greg Lestrade _  
  
_ From: John _  
  
_ I said distract him, not snog the living daylights out of him. _  
_ Good on you, mate. _


End file.
